


The Heart That Has Loved

by Tinnean



Category: Westward the Women
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinnean/pseuds/Tinnean
Summary: It's 1850, and two "ladies of the night" decide leaving Chicago and traveling to California might be a very good idea.
Relationships: Fifi Danon/Buck Wyatt, Laurie Smith/Fifi Danon, Laurie Smith/Roy Whitman





	The Heart That Has Loved

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. The movie belongs to MGM and the characters are Frank Capra's.

There was a light tap on my door, and I groaned, tempted to ignore it. Madam Claire had promised me if I’d take that politician’s son, I could have the rest of the night off. I liked teaching boys the ropes—mostly they were grateful to even be permitted to touch a woman, and hopefully they’d learn we ladies of the evening deserved to be treated as well as the women who sold themselves for a wedding band—but the kid was energetic, and he’d caught on quickly. Now all I wanted to do was sleep. 

The door opened a fraction. “Laurie, are you awake?” 

Only one of the girls spoke with a French accent that was genuine. Fifi Danon was a fiery-tempered blonde who had come up the Mississippi from New Orleans and had somehow wound up in the same cat house in Chicago where I worked. 

“I’m awake.” I sat up, plumped my pillows, and watched as she slipped into my room and bounded onto my bed. 

“Cherie, you’ll never guess what I learned from my last gentleman!” She got all the elite clients, not that I begrudged her. We were friends… perhaps a little more, and if her client made her happy… well, who was I to resent it? 

“What did you learn?” 

“A wagon train will be leaving Independence.” 

“That’s nice.” 

“You don’t seem excited.” 

“Danon, in case it’s escaped your notice, we’re in Chicago. That’s a…” I did a fast calculation. “… a trip of more than five hundred miles.” 

“So? M. Whitman, he say he is looking for women to bring back to his valley in California as brides for the men who have settled there.” 

I looked her over—the gauzy wrapper that covered her voluptuous body, and the long blonde hair streaming down her back. “Why would he want us?” 

“Why not us?” she demanded. “We’re as good as any of the so-called good women he’s advertising for.” 

“We’re better, actually.” We knew what to do with a man in bed, and we could keep them happy. 

“There, you see? All we need to do is arrive at the meeting hall tomorrow and sign up.” 

“Cherie, they’re going to take one look at us, know us for what we are, and turn us down.” 

Danon curled up on the bed beside me and rested her head on my shoulder. “Laurie, you don’t like it here. You’ve said yourself you’d leave if you had the opportunity.” 

That was true. Before Danon arrived at Madame Claire’s, I’d even toyed with the idea of heading west, where a man wouldn’t know my past and might be willing to accept that while I wasn’t much of a cook, I could ride and shoot, milk a cow, butcher a hog, and drive a wagon if need be. Still… 

“All we have to do is dress demurely.” 

“Demurely, hmm?” 

She kissed my cheek. “We go, yes?” 

I cradled her cheeks in my palms and brushed my lips over hers. “All right, Danon. We go.” 

“I knew you would see reason. Now we choose what to wear. We want to make a good impression, yes?” 

“We do, but we’ll make a better one if we get some sleep and don’t look as if we could carry our clothes in the bags under our eyes.” 

She gave a giddy laugh and tumbled me back on the bed, and in spite of my words, it was some time before we got any sleep. 

** 

By the time we arrived at the meeting hall, we could see it was crammed to overflowing with at least a hundred women. Three of the “girls” from The Knickerbocker, Madam Claire’s rival establishment, came storming out. “They don’t want us.” 

“See?” Danon whispered. “If they’d dressed properly, they would have been asked to make the journey. Hold your head high, cherie. Here we go.” 

So heads held high, we made our way into the hall and looked around. It was filled with women—tall, short, plump, lean, even one with a little boy at her side. They were all glancing surreptitiously at the wall where over a hundred pictures of men—as varied as the women—were pinned. 

Danon glanced at the photographs also. “I don’t think I see anyone I’d cross fifteen hundred miles for.” 

“Can we go back—” 

“Oh!” She gave a little gasp. 

I followed her gaze, sighed, and shook my head. Of course she’d set her sights on the most rugged man in the room. I knew his sort—he’d give a woman nothing but trouble, most likely beating her and then running around with other women. 

I also knew better than to object. My friend would only insist she’d be able to bend him to her wishes. 

One of the men was speaking, and I turned my attention to him. “I’m Roy Whitman, and I’ll be escorting you ladies to my valley in California. Buck, here—Buck Wyatt—is our wagon master.” 

Hmm. Buck Wyatt was the man Danon was practically drooling over. 

“He’ll get us across prairies, mountains, and the desert,” Mr. Whitman continued. “It won’t be easy, but I think you’ll find the men at the end of your journey worth it. Now, you’ve told me why you’re willing to travel west. I’d like each of you to come up, one at a time, and tell me why you want to make this trip.” 

“Smokin’ oakum,” a big woman—not only big around but tall, almost as tall as Buck Wyatt—spoke up. “I lost my man and my sons going around the Horn. I’ve had enough of the seas. I want land under my feet that doesn’t shift.” 

“What’s your name, ma’am?” 

“I’m Patience Hawley. 

The man had a pleasant smile. “Then come on up and make your choice, Miz Hawley.” 

Patience did, and that seemed to break the logjam. The other women rushed after her and began peering at the photographs. 

I gave them a cursory glance but didn’t see any that made me want to hand over my freedom. 

“Miss… uh…?” 

I turned to face Mr. Whitman. 

He was older than the men who usually came up the stairs to visit me. His hair and mustache were sprinkled with gray, but his eyes were kind and seemed to light up as he gazed at me. 

I realized he was waiting for me to introduce myself, and for the first time in ages I felt a blush climb my cheeks. “Smith,” I said. “Laurie Smith.” 

“Well now, Miss Smith. Do you see anyone you like?” 

I stood there staring into his kind, blue eyes and smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”


End file.
